


Out of the Park

by thecirclesquare



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7514143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecirclesquare/pseuds/thecirclesquare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cosima is a ball girl on the third base line for the San Francisco Giants. Delphine is sitting right next to her in the stands at her first baseball game. *Based on the prompt from tumblr user strawberryjam42.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Park

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my patrons for their support: Okimafan, OBcrack, María E. Matus.
> 
> If you'd like to support pledge at https://www.patreon.com/thecirclesquare.

The first time I saw her, she was leaping through the air, her glove outstretched as she snagged a fly ball from disappearing into the stands. I didn't know that it was called a fly ball then. I didn't know anything about baseball. It was my first game.

It was her hair that caught my eye, or maybe her size. She was tiny, and obviously female, though she wore the same Giants jersey as the rest of the team. She caught the ball, tossed it back to the team, then jogged back to a metal folding chair on the sidelines right in front of where Laurent and I sat.

"Who is she?" I asked him.

"That's the ball girl," he said. "Every team has ball girls or ball boys. They catch all the pop flies and make sure to return the balls to the team."

"Got it," I said, unable to take my eyes off of her—this ball girl.

She stood so close to us, that if I wanted to I could lean over the rail and tug on one of her dreads. I don't know how she managed to tuck them into that ball cap. Her cheeks were red beneath her glasses. She watched the game with a stern, focused expression. I tried to watch the game, too, but I found it much more interesting to watch her.

Every time a new batter took the plate, I whispered a secret prayer for a pop fly, just to see her in action. But as the sun started to set, the game seemed to drag on, and only once did I get the chance to see her chase after the ball, leap into the air and catch it in one graceful motion.

And when she jogged back towards her seat, she looked up. Our eyes met. She smiled and waved, then looked away, again focused on the game. At first I was elated, but then embarrassed. I glanced around. Surely, she wasn't be waving to me. Or, was she?

But I didn't have time to completely suss the situation out, because only a moment later a second ball popped high up into the air. The crowd gasped and we all stood up and leaned back with our hands over our eyes, trying to catch glimpse of the ball in the glare of the late afternoon sun.

I didn't see it until it was too late, until it was right over me, as black as a coal and approaching fast. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and braced for impact.

But the force that toppled me was not the one I expected.

BAM! It felt like a ton of bricks to my face.

UFF! It felt like a sack of cement to my ribs.

BOOM!

I fell back into my seat, and when I finally opened my eyes and looked down, I saw the ball girl leaning over the railing with her face planted right in my lap! Angry, in pain, and now embarrassed at having an attractive stranger in my crotch area, I pushed her away.

She bounced back up, raising her glove triumphantly and smiling. The crowd cheered.

I might have cheered, too, if it weren't for the enormous shiner that was already forming over my eye. She reached for my face, leaning far over the railing.

"Are you okay?" she said, clearly shaken.

"I'm fine!" I said, brushing her hand away.

"All right," she said. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah," I muttered.

I had been too harsh, even then I knew it. She jogged away, as casually as she could, but I noticed a little less hop to her skip, a little less bounce in her step. There was only one inning left, but she spent most of it avoiding my gaze, and by the end of the game I had resolved myself to apologize for being rude, but as soon as the game was called, she was gone, running back to the dugout before I had the chance.

"She's a quick one, isn't she?" Laurent asked as we stood up.

"What do you mean?"

"The ball girl? Isn't that who you're looking for?"

"No, not at all. Don't be ridiculous," I said.

I hated when Laurent was right.

But just as we were about to make the long climb up the stadium stairs, I heard someone calling from behind.

"Um, excuse me!" she shouted.

Laurent and I turned to see the ball girl, hopped up on the railing and waving.

"Excuse me," she said. "Are you leaving already?"

I took a step or two back down the stairs. "Well, yes, seeing how the game is over."

"How's your eye?" she asked.

"It's been better," I said, suddenly leaning against the railing myself, suddenly standing right next to her. She leaned forward to get a better look.

"Ouch!" she said. "That really must hurt."

"A little…"

"Let me make it up to you."

I glanced back at Laurent. "Oh, I don't know. It's not a big deal, really—we've got to get going—got to catch the streetcar."

"Let me at least buy you a drink before you go...to take the edge off."

"I don't know...I mean, I don't even know your name."

"I'm Cosima," she said, tucking her glove under her arm. "And you are?"

"I'm Delphine, and this is my brother, Laurent."

"It's nice to finally meet you," he said. "Delphine's been wanting to talk to you all night."

I winced at his comment, but tried to laugh it off. "It's just that, you're very good—at what you do. I mean, I'm not an expert at baseball or anything, but it seems like you're very good at it—all the leaping, and catching—very athletic."

I couldn't stop myself from rambling and with every word I embarrassed myself more, but something else was happening. I saw her cheeks grow red and her expression change. She looked at her own feet as my ramblings drifted off into an awkward sort of silence.

Laurent cleared his throat. "I think you should go."

"And what about you?"

"Actually, I've got a thing, so...I've really got to get back to the city, tonight. You understand."

"A thing?" I said.

"Yeah, you have fun—I've just—it's a big thing. A friend's birthday. I can't back out."

Moments later he was gone and we were left alone, facing each other across the railing, her standing on the wall in her cleats and me leaning from the aisle.

"Well, I hope you know a good bar around here," I said.

"Oh, I know a place even better, but you'll have to give me a minute to freshen up."

She tugged at her own jersey, pulling it away from her body. I bit my lip. "Sure."

"Great! Do you know where the Portwalk is?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Go there. I will find you in a few minutes."

I agreed and she was gone, gracefully bounding across the field. I watched until she disappeared into the dugout. When she was completely out of sight, I wandered slowly up the stairs and out of the stadium. I wandered around the outside of the enormous building until I reached the port walk that ran behind it. The water was dark and the air was chilled. Other couples walked together along its length, sometimes stopping to admire the view.

Cosima hadn't specified where on the Portwalk she would be so I decided to stick close to the stadium. I pulled out a hand mirror while I waited, applying lip gloss and fixing up my hair as best I could. But even then, I looked tired, gritty even. But what could be expected after a long day out in the sun? And there was nothing to be done about the eye, which was already turning a nasty shade of green. I smiled at myself, but even that hurt a little.

"What am I doing?" I asked myself, but then I heard her call me and I slammed the mirror shut.

"Delphine! Over here!" she said, waving from an unmarked doorway. "Hurry!"

I glanced up in time to see her approach. She had done something, I couldn't tell what, but her cheeks looked pinker, her lips fuller, her eyes clearer. She wore an oversized tank top and leggings, very different from her Giants uniform. She smiled as she walked, then looked down as if suddenly embarrassed.

I remembered the way she had fallen into my lap earlier, the way our bodies had slammed together. I felt a bolt of excitement shoot up my spine. I jogged to where she was and tried to act cool. She led me through the door and once inside we headed up a staircase that led to a large open bar with an amazing view of the bay.

"What is this place?" I said.

"Welcome to the Gotham Club."

"What's the Gotham Club?"

"It the secret bar behind the scoreboard."

"The scoreboard—?"

"Look," she said, pointing the wall opposite the bar, and sure enough all the scores cards were there, green with white writing.

We sat down at the bar.

"Membership usually costs a few grand a year," she said, "but being a ball girl has its perks."

"It certainly seems that way."

She ordered two beers from the bar tender in his white chef's jacket. He returned with a drinks a moment later, letting us know they were on the house.

"I suddenly feel underdressed," I said.

"Not at all," she said. "Besides, look at me?"

"You look great."

"Maybe _you_ need glasses," she said, but then she blushed and looked down. Even the low lighting couldn't hide that.

"Non," I said. "My eyes are just fine. Well...mostly."

She turned and winced. "Does it hurt?"

"Like hell," I said. "I should probably be icing it, but…"

"Oh, I see," she said, rolling her eyes. "You're the strong, stubborn type."

Cosima turned to the bartender and ordered a glass of ice. Yeah, just ice. I watched, both amused and aroused, as she reached into the glass and picked up a piece. It was in the shape of a baseball.

She held it before her and smiled. "Well?"

"What do you plan to do with that?" I asked. "I've already had one baseball to the eye tonight, thank you."

She cocked an eyebrow, expectantly. We sat like that for a moment, eyes locked, her with that ice cube cocked like a dart.

"What are you waiting for then?" I asked.

"Your consent, of course," she said.

I laughed and looked away.

"I'm serious," she said. "May I?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Sure."

Then she slipped from her bar stool and stepped closer. She stepped so close that I had to spread my knees to make space for her. She leaned forward. She pressed the ice cube to my busted temple. A piercing pain shot through my eye, through my ear, and back to the base of my skull. I winced and pulled away.

But then she grabbed my hand and held me still. "Hmm," she said, "maybe not so macho after all."

I scowled and leaned into the ice cube, no matter how badly it hurt. She ran the thing from my temple, down over my cheekbone and back up over my brow.

I tried to stay still but I felt myself begin to tremble, starting with my legs, my thighs, and then the muscles deep in my core. I glanced at her face, at the smudgy eyeliner in the corner of her eye, at the silver stud earrings in her earlobe, at the vein that ran down her neck to her collar bone. I saw her pulse there. I wanted to kiss her.

"So," I said to distract myself. "I'm guessing you do other things, besides catch fly balls for the Giants."

"I play softball," she said. "But it doesn't exactly pay the bills. And you?"

"Me?"

"What do you do—for work?" she said, looking into my eyes, the ice cube still on my brow.

"I'm a professor," I said. "I teach French Studies at the University of San Francisco. I'm French, by the way…"

A small smile spread across her lips. "I may have noticed."

Our eyes locked and I felt it like a flash, a sudden recognition, a not-so-subtle flirtation. I opened my mouth to say something, but before I even drew my breath I forgot the words. I was distracted by the shadows on her cheek, by the way the light hit her eyes, by the way she watched my mouth.

A single drop of water splashed down onto my leg. I jumped at the sensation. Startled, she set the ice cube back into the glass and rubbed her hands together.

"God," she said. "I guess this isn't really helping anymore—"

"It's fine," I said, reaching for her hand.

"No, it's dumb—"

"It's very sweet of—"

"No, I'm just getting you wet—"

Her voice trailed off at the last word, but we both heard what she'd said—both realized it at the same moment.

"Oh...my...god," she said, raising both hands to her forehead and turning away. "I don't—I didn't mean—"

"Don't worry," I said, reaching out. Without thinking I touched her hip, and that only seemed to embarrass her further. She took a step back, twisting away from my touch. She raised her clasped hands in front of her chest.

"Okay, wait," she said. "Umm...I don't really know what I'm doing here."

"We're just having a drink," I said with a shrug of my shoulders.

"Right," she said. She glanced at my lips again then reached for her beer. She took a long swig of beer, and that swig turned into a chug, and then another. When she finally set the bottle down, she turned and asked me, out of breath, "Are you even gay?"

"Well…"

"I mean, I just have to ask, because I don't want to assume anything."

"I'm...attracted to you, yes."

"Good," she said, taking another drink. "Because I'm attracted to you. Clearly."

I blushed, suddenly not sure what to say. "Good."

"Good. I'm glad we got that out of the way."

We both drank quietly, and I was relieved when she called the bartender back and ordered two shots of tequila. At least it would give us something to do.

She watched him set the two shot glasses down and I watched her. Her mouth was closed into a tight-lipped smile. She seemed to be thinking of something funny but I was certain she wasn't about to share it with me. When the shots were poured, she giggled to herself.

I held the lemon in one hand and raised the glass with the other. I sniffed at it before shooting it down. I nearly gagged, but I didn't want her to know, so I bit down on the lemon before I made my sour face.

The tequila did its work fast because only moments later, we found ourselves tied up in all sorts of conversation. She spoke about her sport, about her stats, about her teammates and ambitions. I spoke about my students, my studies, my dream to travel across the American landscape.

Every now and then the bartender would end up in front of us, with more shots, more bottles of beer. We drank them all with a smile. And with each one that I downed, I had hoped it would be the last—the one that completely washed away my nerves.

But the truth is, no amount of alcohol could wash away the butterflies that she made me feel, but at least they were quieted just long enough for me to be brave.

"So," I said, trying to act casual. "Do you always pick up women by falling face first into their laps?"

She laughed. "No! Never! You're the first!"

"Good."

"I usually save that for the second or third date. I mean, falling in the lap, that's like third base territory. "

She smirked in my direction and I liked it.

"Does that mean I have something to look forward to?" I asked.

"That means, the only place to go from here would be…"

_Home._

I knew it before she said it. If there was one thing I knew about baseball, it was the home run. Everyone in the world knew about that. I could only hope I understood her innuendo correctly.

"Yours or mine?" I asked.

* * *

As it turned out, we went to my place. Once inside my apartment, she had me up against the wall, pushing her mouth up against mine in an overzealous sort of way. She pulled off my shirt, or maybe I pulled it off. I can't quite remember. But suddenly I was topless.

I reached for the bottom of her shirt. I pulled it up in the heat of passion. She, also in the heat of passion, lifted her arms up, and—BAM!—just like that, another smack to the eye.

I reeled back with both hands cupped over my eye. I fell against the wall.

"Oh my god! Oh my god!" she shouted with her arms still tangled up in her tank top. "Are you okay?"

"Yes!" I said through gritted teeth.

Once her shirt was back on, she stepped closer, grabbing my face in her hands. "We really should take care of this."

"No, I'm fine. Just give me a minute."

"Delphine, you're not fine. Go sit down."

I sat on the edge of the bed, quite mad at myself for having ruined the moment, but also quite blinded by the pain in my eye.

She returned with yet another glass of ice and told me to lie down.

My heart pounded in my chest and I laid back. I didn't know how this had happened. I didn't know how for the second time today, I found myself underneath this beautiful stranger, when only hours ago I had spotted her on the field, as far from me and as unattainable as any of the other athletes.

But now...she leaned over me, her dreads draping over her lean shoulders, her head held high, her muscles flexed in the low light. She smiled, raising up the ice and pressing it gently to my brow.

I bit my lip. I held my breath. I felt every caress, every bone-chilling drop of water that streamed down the side of my face and landed like a tear in my ear. She smiled, watching my face with a tender concentration.

"I'm sorry," she said before leaning down to kiss me.

I moved up to meet her. She caught my face with both hands, leaving the ice to puddle somewhere in the pillow. She pulled me into a deep kiss—into several deep kisses—to her mouth, her lips, her teeth. She drew a deep desire out of me so quickly with only those few kisses, then she pulled away.

She grabbed another piece of ice, and landed it on my lips.

"Beautiful," she whispered, as if to herself.

Then she trailed the ice down over my chin, my neck, my breast. It was only when she circled my nipple that I bucked my hips up and curled my toes down into the bed sheets.

And everywhere she touched me with the ice, she followed up with the warmth of her lips. It was a sweet mixture—sweet if not agonizing—the cold and hot, hot and cold.

By the time she got to my bellybutton, my pulse was pounding. My bruised eye throbbed at the temple, but not nearly as much as...other places.

She tortured me with small circles over my stomach until the ice was completely melted against my skin. She licked up the puddles, then reached for the front of my jeans.

"May I?" she said.

"Yes."

She pulled my jeans away, tossed them aside. She took the last piece of ice, and without asking, she ran it over my bare thighs, tracing the inside of each before rubbing small circles over the front of my panties. I trembled, trembled! She was so close to my clit and it was too much. I thought I might die if she were to actually touch me.

Then again, she had me so worked up that if she did not touch me, I most certainly would die as well. It was neither a lose/lose nor a win/win situation—it was a death/death.

"Do it," I said. "Please."

She pulled my panties away, not gently. She pressed the ice against me, not slowly. I moaned and bucked, but she kept her hand firm against me as an orgasm ripped right through me, like cracking ice, like splitting up my sides and out my mouth.

My groan was deep and low, and she loved every second of it, sitting quietly by my side with a firm hand on the ice, and the same cocky smile as when she caught that ball back at the stadium.

I sighed back into the pillow, suddenly aware of how naked I was and how clothed she was. I reached for her shirt and she stopped me.

"I'd prefer to keep them on," she said.

"Okay," I said.

Then her whole body was over mine as she kissed me. I ran my hands under her shirt. I grabbed her by the ass and pulled her closer. She parted my legs with her knee as she whispered in my ear, "Let me take care of you."

I nodded my head in agreement and closed my eyes.

She moved down, laying herself on her stomach with her head between my legs. Instinctively I spread my legs a little bit further apart. Instinctively, I shifted a little further down the bed. The ice cube that had ripped my first orgasm from me had fallen away somewhere.

There was nothing left but a chill between my thighs where it had been. And soon that was replaced with the warmth of her lips. She didn't waste time with many kisses to my thighs. She went straight for me, tasting me with one long decadent stroke of her tongue. I melted into her, moving my hips in the same languid rhythm that she had started.

There was that elegance, there was that technique. She was a perfectionist. That much I had assumed when I first saw her in the stadium.

She kissed and licked and sucked until I was very soon on the verge of another orgasm. It was then that she pressed a finger inside me—maybe two. It was then that she added that extra bit of pressure, that slow building, not hurried, undulating pressure.

My second orgasm did not rip or crack through me. No, it built slowly, rising like a wave and turning me over with it, rippling out from where her lips touched to me all the way to my fingertips and toes, rippling over me like warm water. For a moment, I floated.

She raised her head. She slid up the mattress until she laid next to me. She propped her head up on her elbow and looked down at me, a cocky smile on her mouth.

I touched her face. It was still wet.

"Show off," I whispered.

"I told you I'd make it up to you, didn't I?"

"You sure did…"


End file.
